


the devil you know

by moiraes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s11e10 The Devil in the Details, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 11, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moiraes/pseuds/moiraes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have no idea how much I want this, do you?" His voice sounds almost humorous, as if there's a joke hidden in there, and his hand comes up to stroke the line of Dean's jaw, almost predatory in the way it lingers.</p><p>Dean's not laughing. He certainly feels like he's missing a punchline when Cas leans in, too bright and too sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the devil you know

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR 11x10!! I mean the characters kind of give it away but.
> 
> I know this will be thoroughly Jossed by next week but I'm feeling particularly self-indulgent, so sue me.

Dean will blame himself for it later, ashamed and self-loathing and terrified beyond belief, but he doesn't think anything of it when Cas doesn't show up at the bunker for hours.

Instead, he focuses on Sam, chews him out for being so stupid as to have jumped headfirst into things, to have trusted Rowena, _again_ , to have not questioned even  _once_ that the visions could have come from someone other than God. That last one is particularly grating -- why would  _God_ care about them? Why now? Every time Sam had brought up the visions, Dean had scoffed at the very notion, but Sam had bought into it with a kind of fervor Dean hadn't seen since Sam had practically tripped over his feet fawning over Cas and Uriel. And yeah, Dean gets it. He gets the need to put your faith into something, someone bigger than himself. He hadn't, not back then, but even if he's never had faith in God, he's since learned how to have it in something else.

Sam refuses to rise to the bait, quiet but steady. There's a glimmer of steel in his expression when he tells Dean they'll find another avenue.

Dean can't decide whether Sam's incredibly resilient or incredibly fucked up that after _everything_ , he can still have hope. 

By the time Sam shuffles off to his room, leaving the bunker silent but for the humming of ancient machinery, Dean's about ready to call it a night, himself. He's still reeling from the pace of the day. The incident with Amara and the smiting sickness left him feeling empty and exhausted, and everything with Lucifer was so full and frantic. Frankly, he's fucking tired of being constantly pulled between extremes. Just once, he wants to find some middle ground.

Yeah, like that's ever going to happen.

He pushes himself up from his seat, rocks on his heels for a moment, and that's when he hears the sound of the door opening. He scrubs a hand over his face and rallies himself. A few more minutes won't hurt. "Hey," he says, barely looking up as Cas ambles down the stairs. His gait is odd, a weird hodgepodge mix of the older, more wooden Castiel and the newer, more human Cas, as if his brain's been thrown off-kilter and can't decide which is right. Hell would do that to most people, he guesses.

"Hey."

"So how's it feel to be back behind the wheel?" The Continental is an ugly piece of junk, but for whatever reason, Cas is attached to it. He'd been so pleased when they'd finally managed to track it down only a few days ago. He'd run his hands over the scratched, flaking paint job that Dean can never not mentally label 'pimp', eyes lighting up and face graced with a soft smile that had hurt to look at for too long. 

The smile Cas gives him now isn't quite that, a bit more relaxed and less intimate, and Dean is grateful for it. "Good," he says, and then strips out of his coat and reaches for his tie. It's something he's taken to doing more and more often, but Dean's still not used to it, still can't help the way his eyes are drawn to the skin of Cas's neck as it's bared. Cas never notices -- or if he does, he graciously doesn't acknowledge it -- but the way the corner of his smile quirks now makes Dean wonder if he's finally been caught out.

"So, uh," he says, and clears his throat, more as a distraction than any real desire to make conversation. "You did good today. Thanks. For tagging along, I mean. Even if it wasn't really your choice to get beamed down."

"Of course." He's still smiling, easy and unhurried, and it's almost enough. Something passes his face quickly, too quickly for Dean to get a read on, and then he adds, "I always come when you call."

"Yeah, well. Wrestling with the Devil is pretty much above and beyond how far most people would be willing to go."

Cas actually laughs at that, a small, huff of a thing. "I would've thought it'd be obvious by now that when it comes to you, there's very little I wouldn't do."

Dean swallows. He knows, has known it for years, but hearing the words, hearing how blatant and damning they sound coming out of Cas's mouth is something else entirely. "Yep," he manages, and tries to ignore how choked and alarmed it sounds. He stands, turns, and lets his eyes frantically search the opposite wall, about ready to make his excuses and flee. This is straying too close to territory he's not ready to wade into. "So, uh, glad you're okay, buddy," he starts, but when he turns around to continue his feeble goodnight, the words die on his tongue.

Cas has moved closer, closer than even the meager distance they usually inhabit, and the wry twist to his smile and the unreadable gleam in his eyes sends Dean's pulse through the roof. "Uh, Cas?" The angel's got him all but pressed up to the side of the table. And yes, he wants this, has wanted it for years, but what's always seemed barely possible in dreams is excruciating now.

"You have no idea how much I want this, do you?" His voice sounds almost humorous, as if there's a joke hidden in there, and his hand comes up to stroke the line of Dean's jaw, almost predatory in the way it lingers.

Dean's not laughing. He certainly feels like he's missing a punchline when Cas leans in, too bright and too sure, and Dean crumbles. Their lips are so close that he's almost afraid to breathe, as though even that small act would finally cross the line. 

He can taste Cas's breath, feel the vibrations low in Cas's throat when he chuckles. "How _human_ my desires have become?"

And his brain reboots. It stutters, made dizzy and scattered by the thickness of the air, but there's something  _wrong_ about this. Cas has never spoken of humanity with anything less than affection -- curious, at first, as though he couldn't understand  _why_ these tiny creatures were so enthralling, but with an ever-growing amount of reverence as the years have passed. But there's an edge to it now, something harsh that sends all sorts of alarms screaming in Dean's head.

"I've walked among galaxies. I've looked upon the face of true beauty. Even now, I have more power in my little toe than your entire species has ever had, combined." His smile has sharpened, turned into more of a smirk with every word. Something on Dean's face must be obvious, for whoever it is -- because it's sure as _hell_ not Cas, but he refuses to accept the only other possibility he can think of -- gives up the pretense. "Cas" finally leans back, but even with the rush of air, Dean's lungs refuse to cooperate. "And yet, all you have to do is crook your finger and he trips over himself to be your lapdog until you kick him to the curb again." The laugh he punctuates that with raises goosebumps along every part of Dean's body. "I mean, it'd be hilarious if it wasn't so _disgusting_." All traces of humor evaporate. "Frankly, I'm  _offended_ that so many of our brothers and sisters compare him to me."

"How?" It's only one of the million questions sluggishly making their way through his brain. His voice sounds like a stranger's, coarse and cut into a million pieces. "Was it Rowena? The spell she did?"

Lucifer scoffs, planting one hand on his hip and shaking his head in faux disappointment. The melodrama of it all looks _so wrong_ in Cas's body. " _Please_. Dean, Dean, Dean. After all the fun we had," he drawls, "you and me and Mike and Sammy, did you really forget the most crucial element?"

"There's no way he'd ever say yes to you," he spits, and feels the conviction in it.

At that, Lucifer outright crows in glee. "Oh, but that's the beauty of it. I didn't even have to really ask.  _He_ asked  _me_. Threw himself onto the altar. Guess he was really that desperate to be a Winchester, hmm? It's pathetic." The mockery in his voice cuts like a knife. "He's nothing but a tool to you, but still he finds ways to fall even further. Letting little old me in, of all things. All to save you."

He wants to deny it. He wants to stand firm, laugh straight in the Devil's face and believe that Cas had been tricked, been robbed of his consent. But even as he feels the nausea rise, he knows it'd be a lie. "No. He knows he's important. That he's family," he says, but it's feeble, ringing false even in his own ears.

"Family? Hah, okay. You keep telling yourself that, bucko." Lucifer gives him an exaggerated wink. "But between you and me, I'd work on the delivery a little more. Once more, with feeling. Maybe then the next time lover boy here is mooning over you, he'll listen. Not that you really need him to believe it, anyway. He _loves_ you enough, regardless." The word is spat out, as though it's the most vile of curses Lucifer can think of. "Even now, he's screaming for you, terrified of what I'll do to you. And yet, he can't be anything but glad to see you." There's none of the amused, derisive slant to his expression now, only rage and disgust. "And they call me the abomination." 

He reaches out again -- Dean recoils, has to throw a palm out behind him to steady himself on the table, but Lucifer ignores it, reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. "Well, you have fun in that guilt spiral you're heading down. Call me when you're ready to take on the Darkness. You have my number." And with that, he blows a mocking kiss in Dean's direction and saunters up the stairs, whistling to himself.

Dean can't do anything but watch, the emptiness he'd been feeling suddenly full and screaming with grief and anger and panic, a steady mantra of _no no no no Cas Cas_.

This is all his fault, isn't it?

God, they are so fucking screwed.


End file.
